


A Different Kind of Heat

by merihobu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merihobu/pseuds/merihobu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rog, saunas, unpleasant memories, and a less unpleasant reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Heat

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Rog is a former prisoner of Angband captured during the Battle of Lammoth, right after Fingolfin’s host reached Beleriand. He managed to escape a couple of decades before this story takes place (before or after Fingon rescued Maedhros, I still can’t decide).
> 
> Also, the nature of his captivity differed somewhat from Maedhros’s: instead of the bone-breaking sort of torture, Rog was kept more as slave labour, in which a certain degree of able-bodiedness had to be preserved.
> 
> The sauna in part I is a smoke sauna, where the fire in the stove is allowed to die and the smoke ventilated out before the sauna can be used. It usually has a “softer” kind of heat. The saunas in parts II, III and IV are wood stove saunas, where the stove can be kept burning when the sauna is in use. The heat from the steam of such saunas usually hits more intensely.

**Vinyamar, FA 48–**

**I.**

The sunlight entering the forge through its large windows was beginning to take on an orangish hue when Rog looked up from the sheet of metal he had been hammering. Setting down his tools, he strode towards the door and threw it open, breathing in deeply and relishing the evening coolness on his skin. There was a hint of smoke in the air—not the noxious, industrial sort that fogged up one’s mind and clouded one’s senses, but the comparatively clean smell of burning wood: a sign that the nearby sauna was being warmed.

The sauna had been there before Rog. It was one of the first things they had built when Turgon’s host settled in Nevrast, Galdor once told him. “In such buildings we slept before the ceilings of Vinyamar sheltered us from the elements; this was where we cooked before the kitchens were ready, and in the absence of public baths, such ablution sufficed well.” Galdor had paused and turned his keen glance on him. “It is really quite relaxing after a hard day’s work. Are you sure you don’t want to give it a try?”

Rog had failed to see any relaxation breaking a sweat in enclosed places could bring.

That conversation had taken place many summers ago. Today, Rog found his feet taking him in the direction of the sauna. Near the entrance he was met by Galdor, who looked at him with no small amount of surprise before breaking into a smile. “Almost ready,” he said, jerking his head back towards the sauna. “We just have to let the smoke out first. Meanwhile, you might want to get a towel and some clean clothes.”

When Rog returned, it was to find smoke billowing out of the building: translucent, white smoke that drifted upwards and dissipated into the sky. It looked far more welcoming than the thick black clouds that issued from the contraptions of Angband and clung stubbornly to the low, stony ceilings. Though the white stuff was probably just as suffocating, if one got close enough…

Rog was snapped out of his reverie by Galdor, who had returned with some of his own and Ecthelion’s men. They filed in as the last of the smoke disappeared, stopping in the bathroom to undress and douse themselves quickly in water. Rog hesitated before copying their actions, the strange mix of curiosity and trepidation he felt intensifying as he followed the rest into the hot room. Right before he stepped in, Galdor—who had hung back—hastened to say: “I should warn you—”

It was too late. Rog froze. The room was almost entirely black. It was due to the soot, of course—but his mind had yet to register that, instead flying back to another time and place, where similar walls had once surrounded him, and a similar heat enveloped him, bearing down from all sides until he could barely breathe—

Galdor’s light touch on his arm felt like a searing brand, and when he spoke, his voice was unusually gentle and more than a little apologetic. “Would… would you like to leave?”

Such a question was so far from the reality of the mines that Rog was brought back to the present. The perceived pressure around him lessened. He turned from Galdor back towards the room, where the others had arranged themselves on the benches and sat looking curiously at the two of them. Rog hazarded a sniff. Finding the air far from foul, he squared his shoulders and let himself be ushered in.

“You’re probably better off near the edge,” Galdor said. “The further away from the stove, the better, at least for now.” He nodded an approval to one of his men, who scooped up some water from the bucket at his feet and threw it onto the hot stones.

After the resounding hiss subsided and a new wave of heat washed over them, Rog loosened his grip on the edge of the bench and allowed himself a moment of grim amusement at being the only one in the room to break a cold sweat.

 

**II.**

The sauna near the stream had stark wooden walls and a wood stove that continued burning, illuminating the room with a soft orange glow. Compared to the smoke sauna near his forge, Rog found the atmosphere here much more soothing. The heat, on the other hand…

He suppressed a groan as one of his apprentices—a young lad who displayed great potential in metalworking and an unusual affinity for the heat—hurled yet another scoop of water onto the stones, producing a magnificent hiss and an impressive blast of steam. The resulting onslaught of heat hit him like a whip and sent beads of sweat rolling down his body. Rog fixed his gaze on the stove and focused on not comparing the ticklish feeling to that of insects crawling over him.

Yet another hiss all too soon made him raise his head and glare at the offending man, who promptly assumed an abashed expression and let the scoop fall back into the bucket. Rog could not help grimacing as the heat grew more oppressive and breathing became nearly unbearable. For a moment he contemplated leaving, until he remembered that nothing—no chains, nor eagle-eyed guard—prevented his hands from shielding his face from the worst of the heat.

As the temperature returned to tolerable levels, the person next to him got up and headed for the door. Soon, others in the room began to follow suit. At Rog’s questioning look, the overenthusiastic steam-thrower grinned widely at him and gestured towards the open door. “I don’t suppose my lord would like a refreshing dip in the stream?”

Rog stared. He recalled the icy water, thrown at intervals, that had hit him and the others like a brick, and the cruel laughter as they were jolted momentarily out of their sluggish fatigue. It had been better than the _hot_ water, yes, but as for _refreshing_ …

“I think not.”

The young man shrugged and ambled out after the others.

With the entire room to himself for a while, Rog tossed more water onto the stones, reclined across the uppermost bench, and savoured the feel of heat without the scalding.

 

**III.**

Voices in the bathroom outside made him raise his head.

Soon, a group of guardsmen traipsed in, cheeks pink from the cold, with Galdor and Ecthelion trailing after them. Rog gave them a little nod and waited until everyone was seated before tossing more water over the stones.

He closed his eyes against the ensuing warmth and let his mind wander back to his latest project. The prosperity of Turgon’s folk was now such that people could afford attention to things beyond mere survival and functionality, and it was beginning to show in the more elaborate—and ridiculous, in Rog’s opinion—weapon orders he was receiving. He would have to reconfirm with Ecthelion just how many diamonds he wanted encrusted in his scabbard. Rog suspected one of them had missed a zero in the initial count.

A sizzling noise interrupted his musings. Someone was turning sausages over in a pan above the stones.

Rog fought down the bile that rose in his throat as the smell of cooking meat began to permeate the air. He rose abruptly and left the room, heading down the boardwalk that led to the water’s edge.

The residual heat from the sauna shielded him from the worst of the winter chill. The sea was frozen over near the shore, a great white sheet extending far beyond the end of the pier. There, at his feet, a hole had been cut in the ice, and dark water lapped at the ladder leading into its depths.

Evidently, at least some of them were recovering from the ordeal of the Grinding Ice.

“You want to immerse yourself bit by bit.”

Rog spun round and saw Galdor approaching, the steam rising from his limbs giving him an unearthly air.

Galdor nodded towards the gaping hole. “I wouldn’t recommend jumping. Go in too fast, and your body will go into shock.”

Rog knew that all too well.

“And keep your head above the water!”

Clinging to the sides of the ladder, he lowered himself slowly down the steps. He hoped Galdor could not hear his quickened pulse as he tentatively dipped his right foot into the frigid pool. How nice it was, to have full autonomy over one’s own movements! The ability to ease oneself gradually into the icy water, to acclimatise oneself to the biting cold at one’s own pace, and to stop and leave when one had had enough… Rog marvelled at the sheer luxury of his freedom as he hoisted himself up the ladder and followed Galdor back into the warmth.

Little as he would have expected, the experience had been strangely invigorating.

 

**IV.**

The boughs of silver birch had kept well over the winter, Rog mused as he swirled them idly around the bucket of warm water. Soon it would be time to make new ones.

It was strange to think how different things were, compared to a few decades ago. Who would have thought that he would one day find pleasure in the very conditions that, on the surface, so resembled those which had once caused him so much pain? If someone had told him back then that he would one day participate—nay, _indulge_ —regularly in steam baths that made his forge seem chilly, voluntary bouts of communal nudity, and alternations between both extremes of the temperature spectrum several times in one sitting…

His own short bark of laughter surprised him as he retrieved the birch whisk from the bucket. Shaking out the drops of water, he began to beat himself lightly with it, starting from his legs and working his way up his body. His skin tingled pleasantly from the exercise, reinforcing the idea that not all beatings drew blood or brought with them submission and pain.

The heat in the sauna was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Rog rose and wrapped a towel around his waist, delighting in the simple dignity of being able to cover himself up at will. He strode down the now-familiar boardwalk and paused at its edge, revelling in the morning light that made his scars shine white against his skin. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, brushing the ends against shoulders that, all too rarely, sat relaxed and at ease.

Spring had come early that year. The sea, free from its crust of ice, glittered before him, blue and open and inviting. It sent little waves splashing against the pier, whispering to him his plans for the day: a meeting with his fellow smiths, lunch with Galdor and Ecthelion, armour designs to review from lords with too much money to spend… but not before a quick dip in the sea.

Rog took a deep breath, shed his towel, and jumped.

He knew that this time, when he rose to the surface, there would be no hands holding him down.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Apologies for the extensive notes above and below.
> 
> \- There is no direct evidence (as far as I know) that Rog himself was once a captive of Angband. Relevant passage from _The Book of Lost Tales II_ says:
>
>> In older days [the folk of the Hammer of Wrath] had been much recruited by Noldoli who escaped from the Mines of Melko, and the hatred of this house for the works of that evil one and the Balrogs his demons was exceeding great. Now their leader was Rog, strongest of the Gnomes, scarce second in valour to that Galdor of the Tree.
> 
>   
> …I kind of headcanon that Rog was the first of such escapees.
> 
> \- Why Galdor? Since he is from the House of the Tree, I figured he could be in charge of Nevrast/Gondolin’s sustainable wood management (gah that sounds so wrong). And saunas and forges needed a lot of wood… Also, check out that last line in the above quote. It shall be my excuse to pair them together as friends!
> 
> \- I don’t know how weird all this may seem to someone unfamiliar with saunas. Does it even make sense? D:
> 
> \- WHY IS THERE NO ENGLISH EQUIVALENT OF _LÖYLY_ ;_;
> 
> \- I am a bit irritated by how unbalanced the different parts are. But not irritated enough to do something about it.
> 
> \- As usual, please let me know if I have portrayed something unrealistically.
> 
> \- All feedback, suggestions for improvement etc are also very welcome.
> 
> \- Thank you for reading!


End file.
